What If The Script
by NYCBound
Summary: They went from pretty faces in the background to groundbreaking LGTBQ role models. What if they ever really could talk about what was really going on and keep their jobs... HEYA musings. I do not know these people at all. I just love their story. Some day, someone will tell it for real. Until then, we muse. Brittana Heya Fiction Totally


What If you were about to quit acting - if you didn't book something huge, and soon, it was back to college and being a something or other than the you that you knew in your heart of hearts you were always meant to be.

What if you were sick of being one of many, and happy to be helpful, but kinda over the constant reminder that you were totally unlike the other people who excel at this magical, physical and frankly exhausting thing that you do.

And what if your agent said 'just go!' And what if your friend said 'just go!' After another failed audition for that singing show, that dancing show.

What if you landed in a cheerleading uniform - ugh you hate cheerleaders - at least you hated the hot ones that were mean to you. And you're holding pom poms again and it's funny. Because you get to be the girl you hated. The girl you were before - but better. Because this time you're getting paid and you don't have to stop trying and you get to keep singing, dancing and it sure is nice to have someone else pull your hair up into that high pony while you sit in the make up chair next to her - other new face with nothing to loose.

What if she wasn't so funny, so obnoxiously critical, yet surprisingly humble and charming, hardworking, capable, articulate, gentle, but raunchy, intuitive, sensitive, disarming and kind. What if she wasn't so fantastically cool and unapologetically real but every so demanding of your time, your touch, your focus, you.

What if the sound of her voice, the cheeky smile on her face, the glint in her eye that becomes the thing you most look forward to about work. That the weekends are suddenly too long. So you start spending them with her. All of the time at work and between with her. Work. To think, what if this really is – work - like you - a work in progress but she likes you, you think.

Like likes you, likes you.

And that's a funny thing to think about because this is not like kissing friends at a party back when you hated cheerleaders. Back when you were a cheerleader. The script says that the cheerleaders are cracking jokes about sex and dating. What if this was in the script.

What if the sparkle in her eye is as ominous as the tension in your stomach when she whispers something silly in your ear about In and Out - burgers after work. And you can feel her breath on your shoulder sneak up from behind and the bottom simply falls out every single time, her hand grazes past your thigh on the lot cart, or under your chin when she stealthily flicks some mascara off of your cheek, or she intertwines her fingers with yours when she gets excited about another chance to sing next to you, dance next to you, sit next to you. On you.

What if the comfortable seat in her lap wasn't so glaringly obvious to everyone else. What if no one cared as much as your mother would, will, does. That there's this expanding ball of yes - of her - of want - of her. What if you said "fuck all" and stopped looking over your shoulder and rolled the sleeves back off of your heart and let everyone see. What you fear could not be more obvious than the separation anxiety she has about her morning coffee and you have for the morning sun. What if you started running towards her instead of away. What if your manager, your agent, your boss, your contract, your friends, you brother, sister, father, mother could see you happy more than see you as anything other that what you are.

In love with her. Completely. Utterly devastatingly so. Infatuated. Blindsided. Obliterated. What if she's the blind-spot sucker-punch you couldn't see coming. What if the scenes you play on screen were not microcosms of the fights you have in your trailer. That she wants out and you want in. And there's no way around the snowballing, sinking, plummeting reality connecting all of your dots. Erasing everything outside of the bubble you've built around her.

Mouth. Ugh. The corners of which dip when resting. Curl when resting. Resting witch face. Your resting easy smile.

What if around you she's different than with anyone else and with her you're different than with anyone else and you like it, you love it- more than you loved the work, more than you loved the dream, more than you've loved anything or anyone before, during, or after, you think.

What if you get caught. What if you don't. What if you hide in plain sight until someone calls your bluff. Which they do. Kissing in West Hollywood. Woopse. Which you ignore. And she is just so stunningly blasé about it. But they demand what you should deny. But you can't. She won't. This was fun. It was funny. It was flirting with disaster. The risk of it was half of the thrill of it. The parties, the overnight flights, the press junkets, the tour bus. Her.

The simple texture of hands touching hands. Under sleeves, skirts and jackets. Napkins. Blankets. Sheets. The kids. The girls. The fans. Watching. Everywhere. Even in sacred spaces. Protected spaces. Gay spaces. They want conformation you legally cannot provide.

What if just seeing her beside you was enough. Her hip nestled beautifully just under yours. Matching gowns. Matching glitter. Matching fear of never being enough of a poster pair to make them stop digging into a truth in a constant flux of yes, no, maybe. If there was a man on your arm they would stop asking and the silence wouldn't be so loud.

What if you kept her away from the champagne so she didn't go running off at the mouth. What if you didn't stare. What if people sincerely could care less about who you go home with and which door you leave when. What if you could relinquish the scent of her hair from your side of the bed in the morning, when you clean up and pretend that what happens outside in the world is any less terrifying that what happens inside - yourself.

What if you didn't break her heart. What if she didn't drop kick yours. What if you didn't listen to the voices all around you pointing fingers, placing blame, anticipating disaster where there was no reason whatsoever to go there when you were just so inexplicably happy until people bothered to notice and make demands.

What if the fans could realize that they were actually part of the tension, part of the pressure to be marketable – to who – responsible – to who – honorable – to who? What if she could see the dignity in just being real. Showmance happenes. And hearts swell. Hearts break. Lines blur. But you've never doubted this. Never. And some love affairs are business deals and some are merely contracts. What if she could hear you when you begged her to side WITH you when under attack.

What if you don't push back so hard that she'd run for safety, for familiarity, for anything other that this. What if they listened to your pleas and didn't force you both back into red and white reminders of when things were easy and you were recognizable enough but not recognizable at all really - unless people were looking which they are - like hawks - because there are thousands of little women who need your validation more than you needed that paycheck or her hand taught on the small of your back again. But everyone knows at this point that the characters are actually exaggerations of yourselves and that's the real kicker.

What if months after your not so graceful heartbreak you have to break your heart again because it's in the script. What if getting the paycheck didn't make it any better this time because there's a tight camera close up on every tear. What if the smell of her breath so close to you didn't make your palms sweat and your heart race. What if the crew didn't celebrate what a great job you did with the crying. Because crying on cue is hard, at least it is supposed to be hard. What if plugging into her palms didn't completely unlock everything you've ever felt like uncorking champagne and what if you didn't laugh to yourself when someone patted you on the head and handed you a tissue and sent you back to make up to fix your face after that last fantastic take.

What if you didn't avoid making contact with her in the trailer. What if you actually spoke. What if you had the courage to ask questions. About him. About management. About what the new boundaries are. What they could be. About anything really.

What if the months didn't drag out into a new routine and you actually called her every time you had the impulse and your stomach didn't turn when some glossy mag ran a gossip story and you just called. Said hi. Said hey. Had coffee. Tea. Drinks. Touches. No. Not that. What if you could wipe her laugh from your memory, delete her hilarious messages from your phone, rewind the last two years of fumbling and puzzle the puzzle with her at your side. Instead of two and a half steps behind, or ahead, or beside, or just not close enough to feel real, to be real, to regroup and move on.

What if moving on from this was a solid option. As if you could just walk away. What if the suits and ties could read your eyes as easily as she can. She could. She does.

What if the script was not so damn ironic. Coming full circle. A wedding. A wedding you'd planned with your legs wrapped around each other in the morning, or burrowed into warm blankets at night. A wedding surrounded by friends and loved ones. Cameras and commercials. Song and spectacle. Laughter. Joy. Kiss. One more kiss. What if only this had been your reality. If only this had been your choice. If only there were other options to honor both your voice, and your career. Your family and your dream. What if she actually wanted to stay on the same team. What if this wedding wasn't a story. A bittersweet indulgence of "what if". A wedding that is a work of fiction that was almost true. A wedding that could have been her that truly could have been you.


End file.
